


towers to the skies

by fakelight



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fighting As Foreplay, Fix-It, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-04-06 20:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19069657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakelight/pseuds/fakelight
Summary: “Arya,” he calls after her. He’s not sure why he does it.She stops, still facing away, her head tilted down. “I love you too, you know,” she says, quiet, like the words are being pulled out of her.





	1. a million little battles

She comes back into his life the same way she’d left it.

An arrow, straight to the heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They give him rooms in the small section of the Red Keep that isn’t in the process of being rebuilt.

They tell him they were his father’s.

Gendry doesn’t believe it for a second.

They’d never put him in a King’s rooms, even if they were the only place available to stick a lord so new even he forgets sometimes.

Still, the rooms, whomever they may have belonged to, are nice.

Too nice for his kind. 

He thinks about fleeing from all of it, disappearing into the depths of the city. Even the Lannisters had never found him, right under their noses. But there are few places left to escape to now, and there are no Lannisters left, save one, a lion in chains.

Tyrion had toasted him, after the battle, as he got a new last name and all the trappings that came with it. 

And now Gendry is here to pass judgement, a test of his loyalty to a dead queen, without whom he would have no right to judge.

The irony isn’t lost on him. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You’re the last one,” Ser Davos tells him, “save for the North. What kept you?”

“I was afraid they would lock the gates of Storm’s End once they got me outside the walls,” he admits sheepishly, and then asks, “The North?” 

Willing his voice calm.

“Lady Sansa,” Davos explains, “and Bran.”

“Oh.” He’s not sure if what he feels is disappointment or relief. Both, perhaps.

“And a few thousand men. I think they mean to tear down the rest of the city to free Jon if they have to. That is, if Arya doesn’t beat them to it.”

His throat locks up, but Davos must see the expression on his face.

“They keep having to move him because they’re always finding her wherever he’s being kept. I’m not sure how she does it. But she’s around, lad, if you want to say hello. We had a nice talk about Flea Bottom the other day. She says fat pigeons are still in demand.”

Gendry’s mind is whirling with revelations, but of all the questions he could ask, the one that comes out of his mouth is, “Flea Bottom wasn’t destroyed?”

Davos scoffs at him. “You think a dragon could wipe Flea Bottom off the map?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t go looking for her. The closest he comes is a glance, out of the corner of his eyes. And when it’s done, when they have a new king, he leaves the Dragonpit without looking back.

 

 

She finds him anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s taken to shooting to relieve his frustrations—he doesn’t let himself think about where the inspiration came from. But when sleep continues to elude him, Gendry finds himself treading now familiar hallways, picking up a bow, and emptying a quiver. Nowhere near the center, but, closer every time.

“I heard some fool was out here in the middle of the night,” says a voice from behind him. “I had to see it for myself.”

He turns his head just enough to see her coming closer, her steps deliberate, her hands up in supplication. 

“Don’t shoot,” Arya says, her voice low and laughing, and he closes his eyes, memories threatening to overwhelm as she comes to stand in front of him, a hesitant smile on her face.

The emotions come all in a rush—shame and guilt and no shortage of awkwardness—but it’s anger that comes through when he asks, again, “Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion, the smile faltering.

“Jon’s alive,” he continues, fury rising. “Your brother is king, and your sister’s a queen, which means that you’re a prin—”

“Don’t call me that,” she bites out, hackles up.

He gives her an sarcastic bow. “Many apologies, Lady Stark. I know my place.” She takes a step back and he feels a grim, if hollow sense of satisfaction at the hurt in her eyes. 

“That’s not . . . ” She shakes her head. “I came to—”

“To what, Arya?” he asks, anger giving way to exhaustion. He’s spent enough time turning over their last few moments in his head, to relive it again with her here is almost too much to bear. “To tell me what I already know? That I shouldn’t have done it? Because I know, I knew it then. But I was drunk, and I was happy, and I was finally good enough, and we were _alive_ , and the Hound said . . . ” Gendry shakes his head, feeling a strange pang of sadness at the thought of the dead man, a feeling that surely would not have been returned, had their places been switched. 

Arya lets out a ghost of a laugh. “The Hound . . . he told me to live,” she says, sounding oddly vulnerable, her eyes unfocused. Gendry blinks in surprise, taking a step toward her, but the movement only serves to break the spell she seems to be under.

She shakes her head quickly, as if to clear it. “You’re wearing a sword,” she observes, her voice suddenly nonchalant.

He frowns, his head reeling at the change of subject. “Arya, what—”

She cuts him off. “Last time I saw you with one you almost cut your own head off.” Her eyes flick up, pleading.

He knows what she’s doing. He knows he shouldn’t give in. That he should keep going, keep trying to make her understand, or make her do the same.

But he could also let it all go. Fall back into their familiar patterns. 

He shrugs, and he can see the relief wash across her face. “Hard to wear a hammer on your belt.”

Arya gives him a look. 

Gendry gives her the same one back.

She laughs then, and it’s like everything falls away in the face of all their history; like they’re standing in the forest once more, the two of them against the world.

“You know how to use it?” she asks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She leads him to a room in the unruined section of the castle, pausing before she enters. “I wasn’t sure it’d still be here,” she says almost to herself, running her hand along the door frame. “It’s smaller.”

He draws his sword, watching as she does the same. 

“This doesn’t seem fair,” he protests. “Two on one?”

Arya shrugs, brandishing familiar blades, one in each hand. “Yours is bigger.”

He can’t help a smile, and jerks his chin up at her. Raises an eyebrow. “Aye, it is.”

She blushes, ever so slightly. “That’s not what I meant.” She flicks her eyes toward his sword. “Castle-forged steel. Only the finest for the Lord of Storm’s End?”

“I made a few improvements.”

“I’m sure you did.” She moves all at once, catching him off guard, her left hand attacking from above as the right thrusts forward. He manages to parry the dagger, twisting away from the thinner sword. She grins, and he can see the wolf in her. “Sideface. You’re learning.” 

She lunges forward then, pressing a kiss to his lips, which disarms him more than any dagger.

He’s powerless to stop it, even with castle-forged steel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s ready this time, when she pushes him down. Grasping her arm, pulling her with him, into a bed more comfortable than any sack.

Her eyes are wide, astonished.

“I can be quick too,” he manages to say before her mouth is on his and she’s on top of him once more and all his thoughts are lost. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I meant it, you know.”

He broaches the subject delicately, after, staring at the ceiling, flat on his back. She’s on her stomach, an arm thrown haphazardly across his chest, her face turned away. Chin digging into his shoulder. 

A sharp inhale is the only sign she’s heard. She doesn’t respond. But she doesn’t stop him either, and he means to finish what he’d started.

“I thought about it. Giving it up. Without you,” he continues, and he can feel her tense. He looks over at the back of her head, out of the corner of his eyes. She’s very still. 

Her voice is muffled. “Did you?”

“I thought about it.”

She pushes herself up then, turning to face him, curling up on her side, watching him closely.

“And?”

He considers his words slowly. “I know I wasn’t born to it, but . . . somehow . . . it _is_ me.”

A pregnant pause. “Being a lord.” 

Gendry laughs, despite himself. “No, not being a lord, I’d still much rather be making swords than wearing them.” He chances another look at her. Her gaze is sharp, her expression guarded. “But the rest of it, making sure that people are taken care of—protected. Preparing for winter.”

“Winter is coming,” she says, almost automatically.

“I bloody well know that,” he retorts. “And it’s already here, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Arya smiles at that. There’s something new in her eyes, not respect, he’s seen that from her. Something different. Something considering.

“I meant what I said too—you’ll be a wonderful lord. Really.”

“But you won’t be there.” He fills in the words left unsaid, unable to avoid it any longer.

She blinks, slowly, worrying her lip with her teeth. Her eyes flick down and in that moment he realizes Arya Stark may not be done breaking his heart.

“I came to say goodbye.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gendry sees her once more, before she goes.

His horse is saddled, the few pieces of clothing he owns that are his—not Renly’s, all those left behind in the Stormlands—are packed. Ser Davos has promised a visit, as has Ser Brienne. He is technically their liege lord, after all.

She’s already inside his rooms when he opens the door. He stares at her for what feels like an eternity, drinking in the sight of her, not knowing if this will be the last time.

She does the same.

“Come with me,” Arya blurts out, impulsively.

For one brief, heart-wrenching moment, he considers it. But like all those years ago, it’s not his path, as much as he may wish it to be. 

He knows his place.

“I’ve spent enough of my life at sea,” he says with a rueful smile, before making his own counteroffer. “The proposal still stands.” 

He means it, even as he knows what her answer will still be.

As always, Arya surprises him. 

She doesn’t say no, she doesn’t let him down with kind words, like she had before. 

She doesn’t respond at all.

Instead, her face unreadable and her eyes bright, she turns on her heel abruptly, walking away from him with hurried steps.

“Arya,” he calls after her. He’s not sure why he does it.

She stops, still facing away, her head tilted down. “I love you too, you know,” she says, quiet, like the words are being pulled out of her. 

He hadn’t. He does now.

He also knows there’s nothing he can say or do to keep her from going, so he asks the only question on his mind.

“Will you come back?”

She turns then, and gives him a look, almost dismissive. “What do you think?”

Gendry doesn’t answer. He’s never been able to tell what she was thinking, not even when they were children.

“I won’t wait,” he tells her.

She opens the door, glancing back over her shoulder. “You shouldn’t.”


	2. i am easy to find

He doesn’t.

He _doesn’t_ wait.

Instead, he learns.

He learns how to manage first a holdfast, then a castle, and what being a lord entails. (Mostly listening to people complain, which he did long before he was ever highborn.)

He learns that he reminds people of his father, of Renly, of Steffon, of Baratheons long gone, but not Stannis, never Stannis.

He learns about planting crops, which he puts to good use as he raises a new godswood to replace the one burned, the fate that he’d so narrowly escaped.

He learns that he can be lonely even when he’s surrounded by people, and that lords are far too eager to give their daughters to a too-recent bastard, one placed there by a queen who never sat the throne, especially if said bastard is now the head of one of the Great Houses.

“It’s no bother, my lord,” they say, as if he is a problem to be overlooked.

Of course, to them, he is.

He sends them all away.

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

He’s not waiting.

He’s _not_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He hadn’t asked for any of it.

But somewhere, deep down, Gendry knows that he _had_ been waiting. Not for her, not for _this_ , not being a lord, not specifically. But he’d known, even as he’d snuck back into Flea Bottom, his arms sore from his long journey in that tiny boat, that there was something, something _more_ that was coming.

He’d been ready, expectant, when Ser Davos had walked back into his life.

He just wishes he’d been more prepared. All he’d had then was a hammer and a hope.

Turns out that isn’t enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are rumors, whispers. Coming in from across the realm, brought by ravens that are, somehow, his responsibility. (Not the ravens, themselves. He has a man for that now. But the scrolls they carry.)

A ship spotted at White Harbor. A ragged piece of sail found on the beach at Dragonstone.

A pack of wolves, headed south.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He keeps a room ready. A fire ready to be lit. Clothes laid out, shades of grey, blacks and golds. Just in case.

He’s heard Sansa does the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“This where I brought her,” Davos tells him, rowing them along the craggy cliffs. “The Red Woman. And the shadow that killed the Lord of Storm’s End.”

Gendry feels a chill run down his spine at the thought of Melisandre, even as he knows she is dead, dust.

“Please don’t tell me you came here to kill me,” he says, looking sideways at Davos. “There’s a feast in your honor tonight.”

“I was going to say you should fortify the passage. They put bars up, but perhaps some more. Thicker ones.” Davos stops rowing, looking thoughtful. “What are they serving at this feast? Not boar, I hope. Could never stand the taste of it.”

“Whatever you want,” Gendry says quickly. “Onions.”

Davos laughs, and picks up the oars again. “I’m sure you’ll live to a ripe old age, my lord.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The castle is quiet as he walks the dark passageways, the feast continuing below, but one of the perks of lordship is the ability to leave when he wants. The day had been long, filled with echoes from the past, and tomorrow promises to be even longer. His mind is on shadows and caves and all the paths that have led him to where he is now, enough that he almost walks by without noticing, but out of the corner of his eye he catches a flicker that stops him in his tracks.

The fire is lit.

It’s her room, and the fire is lit and the door is ajar and he can see a shadow dancing across the floor, its movements sharp yet graceful.

Gendry feels his heart clench.

Perhaps a shadow has come to kill him after all.

He moves slowly, almost like he’s in a dream, finding himself standing in her room before he realizes he’s left the hallway.

His voice is hoarse as he says her name, as she turns toward him.

Her hair is longer, the scar from the Night King faded, but the eyebrow that raises up as Arya considers him is exactly the same.

She watches him expectantly, but all the words he wants to say don’t come, his throat locked up in shock. All he can do is stare, drinking in the sight of her. She takes a step toward him, smiling uncertainly.

It breaks the spell.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, abrupt.

“It’s good to see you too, my lord.”

Gendry knows what she wants, the answer required of him— _don’t call me that—_ the answer that will set them back on familiar ground, but seeing her like this, catching him by surprise, it’s spun him off balance.

“It suits you, the castle. It doesn’t seem a bad place to live,” she says when he doesn’t respond, a wry grin on her face. “If you like storms.”

(He does, he’s found. The sheets of rain, the waves breaking against the curtain wall, standing atop the tower as the winds buffet him from side to side, rain streaming down his face. Watching, waiting.)

(Not waiting.)

He repeats himself, because it’s all he can think to do. “What are you doing here?”

She ignores him, taking another step and glancing around at the roaring fire, the carefully made bed, the room that belongs to her. She’s wearing the clothes he left, he notices, and he feels something in his heart tighten even further.

“It was a good feast. Your people clearly love you,” Arya remarks, running her hand along the wall. (Of course she was at the feast.) “No windows?”

“Seaward side,” he replies automatically, the answer to a question too often asked; then remembers where he is, who’s doing the asking.

He shakes his head.

“What are you doing here, Arya?” he asks one last time, the dam inside him finally broken, words spilling out. “Did you get lost on your way west? Or have you come all the way round, and you’re just here for what, supplies?” He’s being petulant, he knows this, but the shock of seeing her has worn off, and now all of his complicated feelings are rising to the forefront. “And then you’ll just sail off again? Off to conquer the unknown world, meanwhile every week I hear another story, about how you’re dead, or Queen of some far off country, or a wolf now, meanwhile I’m here waiting, listening to some lord tell me all about how in _his_ day they would have never let some upjumped bastard sit the—”

“I thought—” she breaks in, frowning, stopping him mid-rant.

He blinks at her, breathing hard, caught off guard by the interruption. “You thought what?”

“I thought you weren’t going to wait,” she says, lightly, eyebrow quirked up higher than Gendry has ever seen it.

He splutters for a second, then throws all caution to the wind. “I didn’t,” he lies, recklessly. “I’m married.”

“No you’re not,” she scoffs.

He rolls his eyes, lets out a huff of exasperation. “Arya—”

“I’m sorry.”

This, of all the things that have happened—her sudden appearance, her maddening refusal to answer his questions—is what sets him truly off guard. Gendry doesn’t think he’s ever heard Arya apologize for anything, not once in all his years of knowing her, which leaves him curious enough to say, “What for?”

Arya takes one more step toward him, slowly, hesitantly. “Ask me why I left.”

He hadn’t, when she’d gone. He didn’t need to know why. She was leaving, that was all that mattered. He’s come to terms with it. “It was your dream—”

She cuts him off. “Ask me why I left,” she repeats.

He sighs, gestures for her to answer. She stays silent, raising another eyebrow, waiting him out until he finally asks out loud, “Why?”

Arya breathes in, exhaling slowly. “I didn’t . . . belong. Anywhere. Not in King’s Landing, or . . . “ she trails off, as though Winterfell is too much to even say out loud. “Maybe with Jon, but—” Arya twists her mouth a little, sadly. “I’d spent so long lost, and I kept trying to get who I was back again, but none of it felt right.”

He knows how she feels, somehow. Like he’s living a life not his own, even as he sits at the high table of Storm’s End, hearing men pledge their swords to him, even as he’s fairly certain he’d made at least two of them.

“I thought maybe once Cersei was dead . . . but my father, my mother, Robb, Rickon—they were all still gone. Sansa, she _belonged_ to the North, Bran . . . ” Arya shrugs, a quick jerk of her shoulders. “I had nowhere to go. So . . . I left.” She smiles, her eyes unfocused. “And I saw things, things I couldn’t begin to describe. Whole islands with nothing but birds on them. People so fierce they hit our bow with a spear thrown from the shore. There was one land, it looked like their sixtieth year of winter, but through a narrow pass in the mountains you could see it was summer on the other side. And you want to know all I could think about?”

He has no idea.

“All I could think was _Gendry would hate it here, he hates the cold_.”

He frowns, unable to follow. “What—”

Arya takes another step closer, close enough that he can hear her shaky breaths. “I left to find where I belonged. And this whole time it was here.”

There’s an edge they’re coming far too close to, he can feel it—a precipice they’re about to topple over.

“Arya,” he asks, his heart in his throat, “why are you _here_?”

She blinks, as if she’s confused by the question. “I—” She looks down at the floor, then back up, breathing deep. Her eyes are bright, and her voice is quiet. “I came to see my family.”

Gendry feels his heart sink— _not for him after all_ —but of all the reasons she could have returned, it’s the one he would have expected. He nods, once, to hide the hurt. “King’s Landing is only eight days ride. I can send a raven, to let Bran know you’re coming,” he offers, as a Lord should. Brienne would be proud.

She’s staring at him, an unreadable look in her eyes.

“Or Sansa?” he asks quickly, worried at her reaction, or lack thereof. “Jon? I know you’ve already got a ship, but if it’s riding—”

“You stupid bull,” Arya breathes, and for some reason she’s smiling at him. She lunges forward, pressing her lips against his in a way that feels familiar and completely new all at the same time, mumbling as she kisses him, “I came here for you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She wraps herself around him, this time. Chin still digging into his shoulder, but face turned toward him, her eyes sibylline.

He can still feel her—her lips smiling against him, her hands warm against his face, tangled in his hair, and the storm rising within—lost, completely and utterly, in the press of her against him, closer than he ever thought possible.

“Arya,” he says, tentative.

She closes her eyes.

“Yes,” she says simply.

He squints down at her, confused.

Arya shrugs. Gendry watches her eyelashes flutter as her gaze finds his. “I never answered you.”

He remembers. _The proposal still stands_. “You told me you loved me,” he says, slowly, even as his heart hammers in his chest.

“I did. I still do.”

“You said not to wait. Why—”

“I was wrong,” she states, plainly. “I was searching for something. Somewhere.” She trails her hand down, placing it over his heart. “And after everything, this whole time . . . it was you. It _is_ you.”

Gendry knows what she means—he’d been searching too, that sense of belonging. He thought he’d found it with the Brotherhood, before they sold him away, and then Storm’s End, part of a family he’d never known, carrying on their legacy all the same.

But with Arya here, real, holding her tight, he knows where his place is. Will always be.

It’s her, too.

He places his hand on top of hers, holding it tight, even as he tells her, “No.”

Arya goes rigid.

“Not—no, Arya, not like that,” Gendry says in a rush, sitting up as she pulls herself out of his arms, clutching a cloak—he’s not sure if it’s his or hers—to her chest. She’s staring at him, her mouth open, hurt slashed across her face. He wonders where her dagger is, and if he’s about to find it buried somewhere in his body if he doesn’t explain himself quickly.

Arya watches him warily.

“I don’t need you to marry me—it’s not you, I know that—I knew it then. But I’m yours. I don’t need to stand in some sept to prove that. Be whoever you want to be. Just . . . be with me. Not as a Lady. Just you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Her face softens as the words spill out of him—he’s drunk again, his head swimming with her.

“You’re right,” Arya tells him, looking down. “It wasn’t me.”

He begins to nod, stopping as her eyes lift back to his, and her hand reaches out. “But I think it might be who I am now.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They say their words to each other in the godswood, a storm raging overhead, the frail branches of the young trees he’d planted doing little to shield them from the rain.

Gendry had never believed in the old gods, much less the new. But he does believe in her.

Arya keeps her eyes open as she kisses him, the same clear grey as the sea.

The trees will grow, he knows, they will bend against the storms to come.

But they will never break.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All titles from The National's [I Am Easy To Find](https://open.spotify.com/track/65lu5ezyVeWJmgUp0pjeGV?si=ykIwJ28DSe-Z5tPioUmugw).
> 
> Many apologies for how long this took, but if you knew how many times it got rewritten you might forgive me. Find me on Tumblr at [wanderleave](https://wanderleave.tumblr.com).


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